The Gambler and the Guinea Pig
by Kooro
Summary: After a hard night at the cards, it does little to improve Watson’s mood when he finds Holmes dead. Don’t be fooled. It’s a humorous bromance.
1. Chapter 1

**Weird title right? It'll make sense later on.**

The Gambler and the Guinea Pig

_Chapter 1:_

He wasn't sure at what point in his day the sun had gone down, but it was dark now. Really dark.

John Watson stumbled forward; his feet moving unsteadily beneath him as he tried to walk in a straight line. His cane tapped rhythmically against the ground, the sound echoing down the quiet street. The moon shone down on him languidly, offering no comfort or warmth to the doctor. The streets were empty and the only other light came from the street lights that littered the sidewalk.

Watson looked up at the sky mournfully. A few starts twinkled back at him weakly from behind the curtain of smog that blanketed all of London. Knowing a thing or two about astronomy, he was able to read the stars. And right now, he read that it was past curfew and nearing the dawn of a new day.

Watson's head fell limply as his crystalline blue gaze drifted down to stare at his shoes with disgust. He was surprised he still had his shoes.

The cards had taken everything else: his wallet, his coat, even his hat.

He had been warned to stay away from the pub. Holmes himself had personally pointed out that if Watson was ever so inclined to enter the pub, he would surely be robbed dry.

And yet, Watson had been unable to resist the tempting lull of the cards. A few harmless drinks and careless bets had resulted in his current condition. His cursed sharp eye and honed senses also played a role in his defeat.

Despite the numbing warmth that sloshed in his belly and the groggy thoughts induced by the alcohol, Watson had cleverly indentified that the card dealer was cheating. He had demanded the return of his possessions and money on the accusation of foul play.

But the card dealer was having none of that. One of his posse "kindly" requested that Watson leave to avoid any possible trouble. But Watson had refused. The dealer had obviously cheated and Watson wanted his reparations.

He was ready for what was to happen next.

In an attempt to quiet Watson, the underling had swung a right hook straight at Watson's jaw. It was an easy attack to block, but the blow had sent Watson tumbling back into the grip of another of the dealer's lackeys. Watson fought this one off as well but with the two muscle-heads against one doctor, Watson was slightly disadvantaged. It didn't take long for them to throw him out into the street.

Watson rubbed his sore jaw where one hit had landed. He knew that it was already bruised. Hopefully Holmes wouldn't say anything.

Without money to pay for a carriage, Watson walked all the way to Baker Street, silently berating himself to having given in to the temptation of gambling and dreading the conversation that was sure to be aroused from Holmes. The detective could probably describe the entirety of Watson's night by just looking at him.

Watson sulkily entered the apartment he shared with Holmes. It was too late and he was too disgraced with himself to go to Mary's house. She also lived further away and he was too tired to walk all the way to her home.

Not wanting to disturb his landlady, Watson crept quietly up the stairs. He stealthily entered the room he shared with Holmes, offering himself a slight moment to be proud of his unnoticed entry.

He stood still in the dark for a while, listening to the sounds of the room – a trick he had picked up from Holmes and used so often it was now an involuntary response. A slight breeze ruffled the edge of the curtain. A clock sounded somewhere in the back of the room, the walls creaked with constriction from the cold. The heavy panting of Watson's dog – he was his dog, not matter what Holmes said.

But that was it.

No screeching of the violin. No snoring. No sounds of movement at all.

It wasn't like Holmes had a social life and he hadn't mentioned anything about a new case, so there was no reason for him to be out. He had to still be in the room somewhere.

Curious, and slightly concerned, Watson lit a lamp to illuminate the otherwise black room.

He blinked blindly for a few seconds as his eyes adjusted to the suddenly bright room. Then he looked around.

His eyes instantly fell on a figure lying prone on the floor and his heart caught in his throat as his blood turned to ice in his veins. He froze were he stood, his breath trapped in his throat.

"Holmes?" he asked, allowing his body to take in a breath before cutting off his supply again in fear.

The body of Sherlock Holmes was sprawled out on the floor. The detective was lying in a rather uncomfortable looking position with his cheek pressed against the carpeted floor; his disarrayed hair splayed over his face.

But this sight was not unusual. Watson often found Holmes lying unconscious on the floor either from passing out due to excess alcohol or because exhaustion had finally won the battle Holmes regularly fought.

No, the unusual – and rather alarming – sight that had seized Watson's heart in a cold grip of fear was the empty bottle lying on its side only inches away from Holmes unmoving fingertips. A stopper rested near Holmes' head and Watson could clearly make out teeth marks. Holmes had pulled the stopper out with his teeth. Which could only mean…

"Holmes!" Watson yelled, his own voice shaking him from his stupor.

He leapt forward and fell to his knees beside his fallen friend. He snatched up the vial and looked for a label. It was blank. He smelled it for a hint as to what Holmes had swallowed but recoiled instantly from the rancid scent. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered before.

And because he didn't know what it was, he couldn't provide an antidote.

With shaking hands, Watson pulled Holmes onto his back and brushed away the hair from the man's face. Holmes gave no response, his closed eyes meeting Watson's searching gaze.

Watson forced himself to take a deep breath. This was no time to panic. He was a doctor and Holmes had just become his patient.

Watson pressed his fingers to Holmes' neck, checking the pulse. He felt nothing. He tried again, moving his fingers around in search of the thrum of a heartbeat. Still nothing. Watson quickly checked Holmes' wrist to find the same loss of a pulse.

He pulled back and jumped up to grab his medical bag. Already searching through it fervently, he returned to Holmes' listless side. He looked through all of his medical supplies but it was of no use. Without knowing what Holmes had taken, he didn't know what to give his friend. He didn't want to inject anything that might negatively react with whatever was coursing through Holmes' veins.

Watson tossed the bag away in despair.

Breathing heavily, he sat and watched his friend in hopeless silence, his eyes lingering on Holmes' motionless chest. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could do to help his friend.

Maybe this was what Holmes had wanted. Maybe he had finally ended his own life. The detective never seemed like the type to die prematurely when there were so many unsolved cases to solve. He was too fond of himself.

But it wasn't like Holmes had a good life either. He depended heavily on Watson. And now Watson had gone off to seek his own future, without Holmes. Watson was married; leaving Holmes behind. He knew this bothered the detective, but surely not enough to die over.

Maybe Holmes had just snapped.

In a last desperate attempt to reach his friend, Watson leant down over Holmes.

"Sherlock!" he cried, his voice echoing with his own anguish and pain.

Holmes didn't respond.

Watson covered his face in his hands. "It's my fault," he uttered bitterly. A wave of sadness washed over him as he felt the first tears trickle down his cheeks.

Suddenly, a groan sounded from the floor before him.

Watson lowered his hands from his face as Holmes' eyes fluttered open. With a tired groan, Holmes stretched and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck with a yawn.

He blinked a few times with a sniff and then turned to look at Watson as if surprised to see the doctor kneeling on the floor beside him. Watson could only stare with his mouth hanging open in complete disbelief as Holmes regarded him casually.

"You look like hell," Holmes noted simply.

**I** **feel so compelled to use big words while writing Sherlock Holmes fanfics. **

**So, weren't expecting that were you? Or maybe you were. I don't know. **

**I keep trying to make those little fanfics, the ones that take up a quarter of a page but I can never do it. The story just keeps going. One of these days. **

**Anywho, I hope you'll be ready and waiting for the next installment,  
Hobey-Ho**

**(P.S. I thrive on reviews and now that school's back after winter break, I could probably use the extra encouragement and joy provided by reviews.)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow. What an effect. So many reviews. Thank you all! I'm glad you like it so much already. **

**Due to some "encouragement" from ****Starkreactor****, I decided to post the next chapter early. **

**And congratulations to many of you for figuring out early that Holmes wasn't really dead – I'm not reading to write a character death fanfic yet – and an extra kudos for those of you who have already figured out what it was he took. Brilliant deduction, my dear so-and-so's.**

**I wish that I could write down all your names to express my gratitude for your wonderful reviews, but then you'd never get to the story.**

The Gambler and the Guinea Pig

_Chapter 2:_

Watson reached forward, grasping Holmes' face between his hands. Startled, Holmes tried to pull back but Watson wouldn't let him. The doctor leaned in closer, inspecting his friend; trying to figure out how Holmes had been dead one second and then awake and alive the next.

"You're alive," he breathed.

"Brilliant deduction, my dear Watson," Holmes replied blatantly as he waved Watson's hands away. He then reverted to trying unsuccessfully to smooth down his shirt.

Watson felt like embracing and punching his friend at the same time. Though the latter sounded like the best reaction, he decided to do neither and lowered his hands back to his sides, his eyes still searching Holmes in a means to learn why the detective had proved to be comatose before.

Holmes looked up quizzically, wondering why his friend was so quiet. When his dark eyes met Watson's dumbfounded sapphires, his expression turned serious with just a twinge of concern. He turned to fully face Watson and straightened where he sat.

"What's wrong?" he asked seriously.

Watson couldn't find his voice. It was a miracle. It had to be. Holmes had been dead only seconds earlier and now he was alive. Certainly not a picture of health, but alive.

Holmes waited quietly for Watson's explanation. When still none came, he reached out a tentative hand and brushed his forefinger against Watson's cheek. When he pulled his hand back, he held his finger out in front of Watson's face. Watson was forced to focus on a single drop of water that clung to Holmes' fingertip.

Before Watson could respond, Holmes extended his arm once more to cup Watson's chin in his hand. He gently turned Watson's head to clearly see the bruised jaw. The skin was swollen and had already blossomed into a sickly color of purple and red.

"You're hurt," he said apprehensively. "What happened?"

"Never mind that," Watson said curtly, slapping Holmes' hand aside and hastily wiping away his tears.

"Oh, so you can speak," Holmes replied with mock-surprise. "Then can you kindly explain why you're looking at me like I just rose from the dead with that bruise on your jaw?"

"Because you did rise from the dead!" Watson blurted. "You were dead!"

"Dead?" Holmes mused thoughtfully. His eyes wondered around the room as he tapped his chin with his forefinger in thought.

"I wasn't dead? I'm not dead... Am I?" Holmes took a new interest in his surroundings. "Is this heaven then? Always pictured it a bit cleaner. Or is it my eternal punishment to live in a pigsty?"

"Holmes!" Watson shouted, recapturing Holmes' attention. The detective looked at him with widened eyes.

Watson bit his lip nervously, his mind still reeling from the occurring incomprehensible. "When I found you, you were dead," Watson explained slowly, trying to make sense of his own words. "I couldn't feel your pulse and you weren't breathing. You weren't alive! How...?" the rest of his question died in his throat.

"What was in that vial?" he asked, the words sharpening with suspicion. "What did you drink?"

Holmes looked away from Watson's demanding gaze innocently, searching the floor for the empty bottle. Finding it, he quickly retrieved it and held it up for Watson to see.

"Remember that little potion Blackwood took to appear dead?" he asked, twirling the bottle between his fingers.

"You mean the mad honey disease caused by the Rhododendron root?" Watson asked.

"That's the one," Holmes said with a snap of his fingers for emphasis.

"What about it?" Watson asked, tilting his head to harden his gaze.

"I decided to give it a little test run."

"Didn't you already try it on my dog?"

"Our dog."

"The dog. Answer the question."

"No need to get hostile," Holmes protested defensively. He leaned back, propping himself up with one arm as he tossed the bottle into the air and caught it. "And yes I did try it on _our_ dog. But I added an extra ingredient to it this time."

"Do I even want to know?" Watson moaned, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"I added flavor," Holmes said proudly.

"You what?" Watson snapped, peering at Holmes from over his fingertips.

"I added flavor," Holmes repeated simply as if it were the easiest thing to understand. "Changed the smell of it though. Smells absolutely rancid now. I'll fix that later."

"Back to the point," Watson growled. "Why did you drink it?"

"Because I wanted to see if it worked." Holmes shrugged.

"So you tested it on yourself?!" Watson exclaimed incredulously.

"How else was I suppose to know if it worked?" Holmes retorted lightly. "I couldn't test it on the dog because then there would be no way for me to know if it did or not."

Watson groaned again.

"It did by the way, in case you're interested," Holmes added breezily. "Strawberry. I made a grape one too. Would you like to try that one? Rather delectable actually."

"You idiot!" Watson roared, smacking the bottle out of Holmes' hand. The vial flew out of Holmes' bewildered fingers to splatter against the ground in a shower of glass. Before Holmes could respond or react, Watson had lunged forward to grip the lapels of the detective's shirt with frustrated anger.

"What if you had actually died?!" Watson exclaimed, shaking Holmes, "What then? What about me? What would I do?"

"Well," Holmes started, shrugging with discomfort as the daggers of Watson's eyes pierced him, "if I did happen to die, you would just live the rest of your life with your Mary. You wouldn't have to worry or give a care about me ever again."

Holmes leaned forward, turning Watson's reprimanding tactic against the doctor as he peered up at Watson with curious amusement. "That was what you wanted wasn't it? When you decided to marry her?"

Watson fidgeted under Holmes' searching gaze, his anger dissipating under the cool gaze of the detective. He looked away as he released his hold on Holmes; trying to push himself away from his suddenly inquisitive friend.

"Yes, I would live with Mary. But I do that now anyway," Watson stammered. "And I do care about…" The sentence faded into an awkward silence.

"Ah," Holmes smirked knowingly. "So that's what the tears were for."

Watson blanched. He stood up abruptly and marched over to his chair, sitting down in it stiffly; his eyes staring intently at a rather uninteresting stain in the carpet.

"So it's true then?" Holmes asked snidely from the floor. "You were worried about me actually dying."

Holmes stood casually and sauntered over to where Watson sat. He placed his hands on the armrests of the chair on either side of Watson, trapping the doctor in his seat.

"You do care," Holmes said with sarcastic sweetness; a smirk twitching on his lips.

Without turning to look at him, Watson swung his fist at Holmes. The detective blocked it easily and danced away with a taunting laugh.

"Shut up," Watson growled, giving Holmes a threatening sidelong glance.

Holmes raised his hands in submission and ambled back to sit in the chair next to Watson's.

It was quiet for a moment. Watson stubbornly refused to even look at Holmes as the detective lit his pipe and watched the smoke drift lazily up to the ceiling. Watson felt a small pang of happiness due to the fact that Holmes had not yet picked up his violin. Thank goodness for small miracles.

"So," Holmes began in his usual, analytical tone.

Watson cringed. So much for miracles.

"I've told you my story," Holmes said nonchalantly. "Now you tell me yours."

Holmes was suddenly crouching down right next to Watson, peering up at the doctor with his pipe held loosely between his lips. The doctor gave a start and recoiled in surprise. His back hit the opposite armrest, keeping him in place.

He hadn't even heard Holmes move. How did he manage to get so close so fast?

Watson shook his head. There was no point in asking such a question. Holmes worked in mysterious ways. He had accepted that fact years ago.

"I don't feel like it," Watson countered quickly. He stood up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've had a long night and would like to go to bed." He started to walk off towards where his bed still waited for him in the now empty room that had once been his.

"Where's your hat?" Holmes sounded behind him evenly.

Watson stopped, his back facing Holmes.

"And your coat?" Holmes continued.

Watson heard Holmes stand and take a step closer.

"You smell of smoke and alcohol, meaning you were in a pub for quite some time," Holmes deduced. "Since you are also missing some of your attire, I can only assume that you have lost your money as well. And seeing a responsible man such as yourself would never misplace your wallet – or your clothes for that matter – I can safely conclude that you have been gambling."

Watson sighed in defeat and turned to fully face Holmes.

"You didn't think I wouldn't notice, did you?" Holmes asked. Strangely, there was no mocking tone in the detective's voice.

"No," Watson muttered. "I knew you would."

"Then tell me what happened," Holmes said quietly, almost pleadingly.

Watson could tell that Holmes was not looking directly back at him. Nor was Holmes really interested in how Watson had lost his money. His eyes were shifted slightly to the side. He was looking at the bruise that stained Watson's cheek.

Watson sighed heavily but stepped back into the room. There was no avoiding it. When Holmes wanted an answer, he always got it.

Watson plopped down heavily into his chair, leaning back with obvious exhaustion. He closed his eyes but still heard Holmes take his seat next to him.

"And look at me," Holmes ordered firmly. "We're not strangers."

Watson opened his eyes blearily and turned his head to look at Holmes. The detective gazed back at him, patiently waiting for Watson's explanation.

Watson sighed once more and opened his mouth to allow the tale of his night to tumble out.

**I apologize to those of you that were expecting a "snapped Watson" but, judging from what I saw in the movie, he's pretty tolerant – most of the time. That and a smack to the jaw just didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the fic. Sorry. **

**Third chapter is the last chapter so I'll see you in another day or so.**

**Hobey-ho (hehe… that rhymed. Sorry.) **


	3. Chapter 3

**As promised, the third and final chapter. I'm sad to hear that you'll miss it, and yet happy that you like it enough to miss it. ^_^**

**But I really need to stop asking for "encouragement" for I now feel a little nervous with both ****Starkreactor**** and ****StealerOfDreams**.** But seriously, thanks for the reviews guys. **

**Thanks to all who complimented my ability of making a good Holmes/Watson bromance. And also a thanks to those who complimented my writing. Your words hit home. Really. My health bar is full. **

**Thanks so much and I hope to hear from you all in the future. Keep on reading. **

The Gambler and the Guinea Pig

_Chapter 3:_

Watson sighed and opened his mouth to allow the tale of his night to tumble out.

"Yes, I did go down to the pub," Watson started. He didn't feel the need to add that it was the pub Holmes had specifically told him to avoid. Holmes probably knew which pub it was already anyway.

"And yes I participated in a game of cards." Nor did he find it particularly necessary to explain exactly how much money he had lost or with what hands his coat and hat had been taken from him.

"But the dealer was cheating. I called him on it and he had his lackeys throw me out. One of the brutes managed to give me this on the way out," Watson continued, brushing a finger across the bruise that colored his jaw.

"But I should have seen the other guy, right?" Holmes offered with a flickering smile.

Watson smiled back, appreciative of Holmes' gesture to try and lighten his spirits. "Right."

But Watson's smile faded quickly as he turned away from Holmes and sank further into his chair. "Anyway, that was my night. Mind you, I didn't help any to find you dead on the floor. I believe I can label this night as one of my worst." He sighed heavily.

Holmes stood suddenly. Wordlessly, he exited the room, leaving Watson feeling slightly dejected and alone in his seat.

He listened as he heard the sounds of Holmes shifting through glass vials in his room; the soft ringing of glass against glass wafting into the room where Watson still sat. What was Holmes doing now?

Before Watson could get up and investigate, Holmes returned, a bottle clasped tightly in his hands.

"Here," Holmes said, holding the vial of clear and unlabeled liquid to Watson. "You need this more than me."

Watson made no move to accept the gift. Instead, he only glared at it disdainfully. "Is that the second test of the flavored Rhododendron?"

"It's grape flavored," Holmes said invitingly.

Watson held up his hand to refuse the liquid. Holmes shrugged and started to pocket the vial.

"On second thought," Watson said hurriedly. He reached out and swiped the vial out of Holmes' hand, "I'd better hang on to this. I don't want a recap of tonight, thank you."

Watson quickly tucked the vial safely away in his own pocket as Holmes returned to his seat, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, breaking the silence that had stealthily enveloped them once more.

Watson turned his head to meet Holmes' gaze. The detective was no longer smiling but staring back at Watson with fierce sincerity.

"Why?" Watson groaned. "What did you do now?"

"No, I'm sorry for making you worry like that," Holmes explained. Watson was able to detect the softest sound of sympathy mingling with the words. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Watson looked away with a sad nod. Yes, he had truly been scared upon seeing the lifeless body of his dear friend. Scared and devastated to the point of tears. But holding a grudge against Holmes would prove and do nothing. Appreciating the fact that he was still alive however…

"I forgive you, old friend."

Watson smiled warmly at Holmes. Holmes visibly relaxed in his seat, gracing Watson with his own smile that made his eyes sparkle uncharacteristically so.

"Just don't do it again." Watson added in an authoritative tone.

"No promises," Holmes murmured, refilling his pipe.

"What was that, Holmes?"

"My promise," Holmes announced. "You have my promise."

Satisfied, Watson sat back in his chair, sleep tugging once more at his consciousness. Holmes lit his pipe beside him and slowly blew out a puff of smoke from between his lips.

Watson's lips twitched into a wry smile as a thought crossed his mind. He gave Holmes a sideways glance. "I was the gambler and you were the guinea pig, huh. We really need to get out more, or at least get new friends." Watson couldn't help but chuckle dryly at his conclusion.

"Social life is overrated, my dear Watson," Holmes argued with a dismissive wave of his hand and a sardonic sniff. "As for friends, I only need one." Holmes returned Watson's smile. "And he's already here with me."

**I tried to sneak a hug in here but the moment never seemed just right. And you should never rush or force a hug.**

**Well, that is the conclusion. I just love the bromance and I hope I portrayed it well enough. Don't you worry. I have other fanfics on the way. **

**There is actually another "Sherlock Homes" category in the books sections – since Sherlock Holmes is a book – in case you didn't know. I was debating on whether or not to post in that section too but since I'm using the personalities and physical appearances from the movie, I'll keep it in the movie section. But just you wait, I'll read those books soon enough.**

**Until next time,  
Hobey-Ho**


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